John smiled to himself as the soft sunshine of mid-April warmed his face as he exited the building that housed Columbia University's biology department where he had just finished up an morning class. His ears were bombarded with the sounds of the city - people conversing, shouting, laughing, cars honking their horns, distant sirens, and he could even pick out the drums of a street performer floating in the air. His thoughts wandered to where he was going to grab his daily coffee and lunch combo before returning to his apartment to work on a research paper he was writing for school.

On a whim, John took an impulsive turn down a street that took him to a little cafe near Columbia's law school. He remembered something a buddy of his had said when he told John about this particular shop: "great lattes and great law students to look at," he had said with a cheeky wink. Arriving at the door, he pushed it in and stepped into the building. Instantly, he felt out of place among the nicely dressed, well-to-do law student types that filled the cafe. Walking up to the counter to order, John caught snippets of their conversations, which included "the rising debt ceiling" and "diplomatic relations with Israel" among more typical college student things like "I am freaking out about this casenote assignment!"

Now with his caramel mocha in his hands, John made his way to a small wooden table in the back corner of the cafe; from this new vantage point, he was able to observe everything happening around him. His eyes passed over people furiously typing away on their laptops and groups of girls socializing with friends in between class. Eventually, his eyes rested on a group of boys, presumably law students, gathered around a small table, some sitting and some standing. John took in their clean, wrinkle free Oxford shirts, sweaters, and blazers, their pressed formal pants, and their shiny loafers. John chuckled lightly to himself, making a mental note to wear a suit and tie if he ever decided to frequent this particular cafe again, not the dark-wash jeans, plain red t-shirt, and dim white converse he was currently outfitted in.

As he scanned the bow-tie wearing, briefcase carrying group of law students, his gaze fell upon one of the boys. He was standing to the side of the group, his arms crossed, obviously engaged in a deep discussion with two others that stood in front of him. John couldn't help but notice the subtle, yet obvious, differences that separated him from his companions. For one John could tell the boy's green button up was not ironed and his pants had not been pressed. Furthermore, he wore his black hair long and had it tied back into a ponytail, a stark contrast to the rest of the groups cropped and neatly styled cuts. But, most of all, this boy stuck out to John because of his shoes. They were not polished like the other boys; John could see the scuffs, even from his position across the room. John remembered his grandfather always telling him, "You can always judge a man by his shoes," and John was willing to bet scuffed-shoes boy didn't come from the same background as his friends and probably had to work a hundred percent harder because of it.

Taking the last sip of his coffee as stood up and pushed in his chair, John made his way to the trashcan across the room. In one swift motion, he dropped his empty coffee cup into the opening, spun around, and ran straight into the scuffed-shoes boy, who was now sitting on the floor staring up at John, a topless coffee cup in his hand. Upon further inspection, John realized the contents of the cup had found their way to the front of scuffed-shoes boy's green button up. "Oh shit, Hamilton!" John heard one of scuffed-shoes boy's buddy yell as the rest of the group cracked up in laughter.

"I am so sorry!" John apologized, fumbling over the words as he offered his hand to help the boy on the floor in front of him, Hamilton, John presumed his name was, up. John was flabbergasted when his hand was filled, not by Hamilton's hand, but by his empty coffee cup. Hamilton, who's tan face had a scarlet coloring rising around his cheekbones, swiftly rose from the floor on his own and strode into the bathroom at the back of the cafe, most likely to attempt to salvage his shirt. The group of law students cackled at what their friend had done. John, now thoroughly embarrassed and as red as his t-shirt, slammed the cup into the trashcan and practically ran out of the cafe.

-

"And that is why I will never venture into the stomping grounds of law students ever again," John stated. He had just finished recounting his tale of the coffee catastrophe to the boys who shared the apartment next to him. The boys, Hercules Mulligan and Marquis de Lafayette, were enrolled in Columbia like John, and they quickly had become his best friends. Hercules clamped his shoulder on John's, as he shook his head and laughed at his friend's misfortune. The couch the two boys were sitting on jolted as Lafayette plopped down and stretched his legs out onto John's coffee table; a few kernels of popcorn flew out of the bowl Lafayette held as he threw himself onto the couch. "Marquis, feet off the furniture," John attempted to chastise his friend.

"Stick to the artsy neck of the woods from now on, mon ami," Lafayette advised John while completely ignoring his demand.

"Would you please stop using French in your daily conversations?" Mulligan implored Lafayette as he shoved his feet from where they rudely rested on the coffee table.

"Hercules, do I need to remind you that my parents are French and fluent in it? They taught me the beautiful language, and I intend to honor my heritage by speaking it," Lafayette retorted in between large mouthfuls of popcorn.

"Okay, great, but you are American. You were born in Brooklyn for God's sake!" Mulligan argued, earning a laugh from John. Both the boys garnered a glare from Lafayette, who pouted and continued to shove popcorn in his mouth.

"My name is freaking Marquis de Lafayette, I get to speak French when I wanna, dammit," Lafayette mumbled under his breathe, mostly to try to get a rise out of Mulligan; which he, sadly, did not, for Mulligan disregarded him with a huff while rolling his eyes.

While Marquis absentmindedly channel flipped and Hercules rummaged through John's cabinets for more snacks to eat, John found himself thinking about Hamilton. For a reason he was not able to place his finger on, he actually could not stop thinking about the boy from the coffee shop. Although their short interaction had been fairly mortifying for John, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else behind the look of utter annoyance in Hamilton's dark eyes; something that he wanted to know.

"Yo, earth to Johnny," Marquis called, pulling John back to reality. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"I bet he's thinking about scuffed-shoes boy," Mulligan returned from the kitchen and ruffled John's curly hair.

"No, actually I wasn't, thank you very much," John hoped his friends wouldn't notice the blush creeping onto his cheeks as he lied. "And his name is Hamilton, by the way."

"Look, already defending him!" Lafayette teased.

"Literally the only thing I said was his name, Laf" John snapped back, to which Marquis put his hands into the air in a fake surrender.

"You're lying," Hercules sing-songed, "You were blushing early when you told us the story and you're blushing now," he smiled knowingly at John.

"I'm just embarrassed, that's all," John quickly made up a reasonable excuse. "And, anyways, isn't it time y'all were both returning to your own apartment?" he made sure he made a point of gesturing to the clock, which read 11:36 PM.

"I suppose," Mulligan grabbed his jacket with one hand and Lafayette with the other, pulling him from the couch towards the door.

"I see how it is: we bring up your crush and you make us leave," Lafayette jokingly complained.

"Ha ha," John deadpanned. "See you guys tomorrow," he called as his two friends walked out the door. They shouted responses as they made their way down the hallway. John sighed and closed the door. As he readied for bed, he struggled with thoughts in his head. He cursed his knack for obsessing over total strangers and getting too caught up in tiny details. Turning off his lamp and resting his head on his pillow, he decided, somehow much to his own disappointment, that he would not pursue the idea of seeing Hamilton again.

-----

Author's Note

Just to be sure everyone knows, the characters in this story will look like the actors that portray them in the musical. Also, I'm not buying into the whole "Laf is a French exchange student" thing sorry lol. (not knocking it though) And Laurens is gonna be from South Carolina just like real life so he's gonna say stuff like "y'all."